


But Other People Live There Now

by kayliemalinza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Demonic Possession, Domestic Violence, F/M, Graphic Description, Injury, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:05:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jo is possessed by a demon. The hospital staff, naturally, misinterpret the cause of her injuries. Set during an AU Season 2 or 3 where Dean and Jo are dating and hunting together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Other People Live There Now

"What took so long?" Dean asks when Jo comes limping out into the waiting room. The bruise on the left side of her face has gone splotchy all the way up to the temple. There's a distinct rectangle of damaged skin along her jaw. The cast on her arm is neon green. _She's fine—she's fine—_ the doctor kept saying. The doctor said, _It's a simple fracture, sir, but I have to insist that you wait outside._

Jo stares at the hollow of his neck. Her eyes are black and red, blood pooling in the sclera; it takes too long for Dean to see the glimmer of white between the vessels, the highlights of brown and green within the iris. His heart thumps against his ribcage like it's trying to escape.

Jo leans far to one side, then the other, a slender ship in choppy waters. Dean curls his palm around each shoulder. Her shirt is soft, plaid, but his pinky fingers brush against the clammy skin beneath the sleeves, the goosebumps, Braille for _sickhurtscared_.

"They tried to check me into a battered woman's shelter," she says.

Dean drops his hands.

Jo blinks, a slow slide of purpling skin over Vicodin eyes. "They offered to sneak me out the back, since you were still here."

Dean looks around the waiting room. He's spent hours staring at the scuffed linoleum, the rippled vinyl seats, the dripping paint on the cinderblock wall. Now he sees the look-aways from other patients, the blue-eyed doctor standing by the phone, the receptionist's hard, white mouth.

They think he beat his girlfriend.

He did.

Dean swung a fifth of whiskey at her head and kicked her down the stairs. He pinned her to the floor and muttered words that made her scream.

(Latin words, not _bitch_ and _whore_ , but they don't know that.)

"Dean," sighs Jo, then " _Dean,_ " sharp and breathy, when he steps back. She shuffles forward, slips her good arm beneath his leather jacket and around his waist. She rests the cast against his belly, scratchy and hard, and leans her heavy head against his chest. "Take me home," she says. 

_but we haven't checked in to a motel yet,_ thinks Dean, and then, _but we can drive anywhere in it,_ and then, _but other people live there now_.

"...the Roadhouse?" he says, with the crack in his voice that he thought he'd gotten rid of when he learned to take bravado to school even if he forgot his books, or paper, or lunch.

Jo nods, her hair rucking up against his shirt. Dean smooths it down again with his dumb broad fingers. He pulls his jacket closed around her, palms the curve of her head beneath the leather.

"Sure thing," he whispers to his collar. "Whatever you want, sweetheart."


End file.
